Hanging onto life by my fingertips
Wrapped in silver linings
Wrought from good intentions
My brain is not my friend
That traitor is whispering sweet nothings
Promises of relief and rest
And an end to the constant struggle to stay aloft
But my fingertips are glued to that ledge
And though I’d peel the skin off my fingertips
Cut my hand off at the wrist
Just to release
The blade is dull by the time I touch it to my wrist
I must not want it enough
Instead I fill my pockets with rocks
Tie cinder blocks to my feet
And wait to slowly slip away